


Somnolence

by J_D_McCormick



Category: Constantine (TV), Hellblazer & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, self-medicating with alcohol, soft, there's some hints to chastantine if you squint hard enough, vague musings upon john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:00:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29908371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_D_McCormick/pseuds/J_D_McCormick
Summary: It’s not unusual to find John this way – bundled up on the couch, under a pile of blankets, empty glasses and bottles strewn nearby as he sleeps. It’s a familiar song and dance, and there could be any number of reasons behind it. One too many rejections on a bar crawl, a case that burrowed too deep under his skin, one of a thousand tiny triggers for memories John does his best to forget.And Chas picks up the shrapnel. As usual.
Relationships: Chas Chandler & John Constantine
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	Somnolence

**Author's Note:**

> Literally just an excuse for me to expound on headcanons for how John sleeps. Also a dip into writing a more TV-show oriented Constantine fic.

It’s not unusual to find John this way – bundled up on the couch, under a pile of blankets, empty glasses and bottles strewn nearby as he sleeps. He seems like the kind of man who should take up as much space as possible when sleeping, sprawling like he doesn’t give a damn about anyone else’s space, but he’s not; usually he tucks up into himself, curled tight like a hedgehog, quiet and defensive. He’s fully clothed, tie and all, though at least he’s taken his shoes off this time.

Chas sighs quietly as he starts carefully picking up the mess scattered around the floor. Bottles of Chas’ beer, which John never breaks into unless he’s just raiding for whatever alcohol is in the house; a bottle of whiskey which John had been carefully rationing, previously, trying to savour the expensive taste of it; John’s crystal glass ashtray, which was at some point knocked and has spilled cigarette butts and ash onto the floor; a few loose parchments for spells in languages Chas doesn’t recognise, let alone know how to read.

It’s a familiar song and dance, and there could be any number of reasons behind it. One too many rejections on a bar crawl, a case that burrowed too deep under his skin, one of a thousand tiny triggers for memories John does his best to forget. Chas is used to the minefield that is John Constantine by now, too many years at his side to have not learned the places not to step, but Zed is still a new piece to their equation and there’s a couple of times she’s detonated something.

And Chas picks up the shrapnel. As usual.

John could almost be sweet, looking like this. It’s one of the few times he’s ever fully relaxed, quiet, still – expression not quite peaceful, but blank, devoid of the sharp edges of a cocky grin or the harsh lines of a frown. There’s no blustering talk or obscuring gestures. Just John.

It’s a vulnerability Chas knows John would hate to know about. That like this, asleep and without dreams, Chas thinks the purest core of what John is can be seen, right there, plain as day, if people knew just the way to tilt their head at it. Knew just how to interpret the defensive curl of his back, the bend of his arms tucked up near his face, the smoothing of the lines of his brow. It’s a language he’s learned to speak over the past decade-plus-change of knowing John, of dragging him home from bars and pubs, of hearing him yell in the night, of – sometimes – waking up to a new bedmate who disappears once the sun rises.

Of finding him curled up against the back of the couch like he’s hiding away against the cushions, like he’s using it as a poor facsimile of actual comfort.

It’s also a vulnerability Chas knows John won’t want Zed seeing. With the detritus clear, Chas leans down to carefully untangle the mess of blankets and scoop John into his arms. It’s a delicate process, trying not to jostle him too much and risk waking him – John needs every minute of sleep he can get, especially ones that are restful instead of disturbed and tense. Chas doesn’t approve, entirely, of John drinking himself to sleep, but the times it happens he can’t help but be glad it at least means he’s getting some proper rest.

He manages to get halfway up the stairs before John shifts, murmurs unintelligibly, and tries to crack his eyes open.

“Wha’zzit?” John grunts quietly.

“Just me. Go back to sleep.” Chas hums, voice pitched low.

“Ch’s?” John mumbles, only understandable because Chas is used to the sound of his name, slurred and muffled, on John’s lips.

“Yeah, John.” He replies softly.

John hums, snuffles, and tries to tuck himself closer to Chas’ chest, hiding away from the light spilling in through the millhouse’s few windows. Chas lets him, setting a hand against the back of his head and rubbing thoughtlessly at the short strands of hair there. John makes a soft noise, the kind he only ever makes when he’s half-conscious with his walls down, content and thankful. It’s like John thinks that even the slightest acknowledgement of his own happiness will call down some evil or another to immediately destroy it, and so usually he keeps it quiet, expresses it in ways you need a complex cipher to understand.

Nothing happens, though, despite John’s constant paranoia of the fact; Chas keeps on stroking his hair, and John keeps on dozing, and Chas gets the rest of the way up the staircase without incident.

John’s bedroom is somehow both spartan and a tip; he has little in there beyond a dresser, his bed and a large chest of magical items, yet somehow the sheets are half off the bed, a selection of clothes is spilling out from the dresser, and magical items of various kinds are scattered across the floor. Chas sighs, but simply navigates around them, practice from years of putting Geraldine to bed atop the years of doing the same for John. Magic-imbued knucklebones are just as painful to step on as Barbie dolls, his feet have learned.

He lays John down carefully on the bed, pulling off his tie and his belt in the hopes of making him a little more comfortable for the remaining hours he’ll hopefully stay asleep. John huffs in quiet annoyance, shifting to curl up on his side, pillow half clutched to his chest and half under his head. Chas can’t help but chuckle, shaking his head fondly. As he pulls up the covers around John, one of the Brit’s hands sluggishly catches hold of his sleeve.

“Ch’s.” He mumbles again. “G’nna stay?”

Chas pauses, thinking for a moment. It’s morning, and he’s just gotten himself up and dressed for the day. He was going to make breakfast, before he’d stumbled on John’s localised war zone. He has work he wants to do on the cab, changing the oil and replacing a few busted parts in the suspension. He’d planned on doing that with enough time to take the cab down to buy ingredients for a good lunch.

But if Chas refuses, John probably won’t sleep much longer, if he manages to get back to sleep at all. And worse, it might cause John to give him one of those few, rare looks of real hurt, the kind of thing he usually keeps locked away, which always makes Chas feel like he’s just stepped on something small and delicate and trusting.

And, well…. It’s been a while since he had a lie in. A while since he fully caught up on his own sleep deficit; not as big as John’s, certainly, but still short a fair few hours.

A while since he slept next to John, too.

“Yeah.” He assures John, patting his shoulder. “Yeah, I’ll stay. Just give me a moment.”

John gives a quiet grunt of assent, letting go of Chas and burrowing down into the covers. Chas slips off his own belt, jeans, and overshirt and piles them neatly on top of the dresser before sliding into the bed and fitting himself against John’s back. He does miss sleeping regularly in a bed with another body in it, and John may be all sharp angles and hard lines where Renee used to be curved and soft, but he fits against Chas just as well as she had. Perhaps better, in some ways. Chas usually tries not to think about that too hard.

John gives another of those small contented noises, a soft sigh, reaching down to rest his hand against Chas’ arm where it’s draped over his waist.

“’Nuff think’n’.” John breathes, patting clumsily at Chas. “Sleep.”

Chas smiles. “Alright. Goodnight John.”

“Mmn.” Is all he gets in response, John already deep enough in sleep to be incapable of intelligible words.

Chas chuckles, soft and fond, the things he’s allowed to be about John when John isn’t looking, can’t hear, can’t scowl and swear and try to shrug it off. He settles himself a little deeper into the bed, and John settles a little closer against him.

Everything else can wait for later; for now, he closes his eyes, and lets himself drift off.

Zed can figure out breakfast for herself.

**Author's Note:**

> It was surprisingly difficult to wrangle myself into writing a fic with a lot less dialogue involving these two. Also a non-British Chas. After writing so many fics where I could just let my natural and colloquial British English flow, reigning myself back into a more neutral writing style and remembering to include Americanisms for Chas became surprisingly challenging.
> 
> Anyway, as always, feedback is always welcome and encouraged! Thank you for reading.


End file.
